Talk
by rinkaku
Summary: Arthur comes to realize that the home life of his boyfriend isn't as picture-perfect as he'd assumed; meanwhile, Alfred refutes everything- to the point he can no longer part from his personal facade. One-Shot. UKUS.


**Pairing:** England x America

**Warnings:** homophobia, swearing, a brief sex scene, adult themes, cursing, angst and the more obvious shonen-ai.

**A/N:** My creative writing teacher had once told me "Write what you know." It wasn't until recently I learned what she meant. Anyways, feedback and con-crit are always loved~!

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><p><strong>[ Nobody said it was e a s y ]<strong>

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><p>"<em>Alfred, you bleeding moron-"<em>

"_I swear, that head of yours is going to fly _

_up and off your shoulders soon."_

The American simply smiles in return, ebullient as ever. He simply nods his head, hums his acceptance at everything his boyfriend has said before returning his gaze back on the Briton. True-blue hold onto emerald; seemingly softer eyes expressing a weariness that the seemingly wiser eyes cannot seem to gauge.

Or he honestly cannot, it seems.

"Yeah, yeah, Artie." he nonchalantly shrugs, his smile gaining a little more honest luster when the older merely gives a short scoff. "You gonna eat those fries?"

Shaking his head semi-disapprovingly, the sand-blond scoops his remaining lunch onto his boyfriends plate anyway. "No, no, you can have them."

And Alfred finds himself shoveling them a little harsher down his raw throat when Arthur fails to notice the pained expression he wore at the Britons immediate reply.

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><p>"<em>Jesus, you fagot, why can't you just do this right for once?"<em>

"_Alfred, stop being such a queer and looking_

_at those boys outside and listen to me."_

"_God, why couldn't you have_

_sent me a girl, at least? Why?"_

The blond briefly flits his attention up and soon regrets it. His mouth feels like it's literally been sewn shut at his lips, despite the desperate urge to reply or even mollify his mother.

"Fuck." he cringes as his father throws his silverware at the table, a scowl on him as resentful navy stare right through him.

_Right. Through. Him._

"Where did we go wrong, Alfred? Huh? Did we not love you enough? Are you just going through another one of your phases?" the need in his voice soon accumulates into one of rage, of ire, of sheer rancor.

This is nothing new to the youth.

"Answer me, _fagot!_"

Alfred merely glances down at his suddenly too-full plate, and without another word, gently and quietly makes his departure from the dining room. His ears ring as his mother begins to sob and wail, as she usually does at this hour, and his father attempts placating it with the idea that _at least Matthew had been a good boy, but God had taken him sooner and why it wasn't Alfred he begged to know daily._ He is out of his house and into the bitter Fall night, with only the clothes on his back, in seconds.

His parents either do not notice or, once more, refuse to acknowledge his absconding.

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><p>"Oi, Peter, what's taking you so long to-" a familiarly accented voice calls out, washing the American's senses into a blanket of comfort.<p>

"You know this weirdo, wanker?" his brother asks, before yelping when the elder Kirkland hits his side and forces him back into his home.

Turning back to the blond outside his door, Arthur can't help but feel a little embarrassed when he finds that he's being intently watched by intoxicating blue eyes. His skin flushes and he forces himself into the present before he delves into his inhibitions.

"Alfred," he hesitantly commences, his tongue feeling a lot more clumsier than he would like to confess, "w-what are you doing here so late? Did something happen?"

He understands only slightly when the blond finally reacts at his last inquiry; he looks away, his typically faded sapphire glancing down at the rose garden adorning his porch. Sighing, Arthur weighs his weight on one foot before the other; scratching the back of his neck and coughing nervously when the American finally decides to keep watching him.

"Can I sleep here tonight?"

The Briton starts at the abrupt question, but soon shirks his own discomfort as he answers with a flustered _"Y-yes, you twat, of course."_ before dragging him on inside.

Alfred cannot help but ignore what is said to him, as he focuses on how soothing and natural that pale hand twined with his feels. He also cannot help the fear that settles in his entire being when the sand-blond spares him undeniable signals as his parents say their goodbyes and bother trying to advise Alfred that they'll be taking little Peter with them to their weekend trip to the town over. He wants to cry when Arthur begins telling him about his day, serving him leftovers of the near identical casserole his mother had served him earlier.

He helps himself into the reveries of his fathers insults and thrives on the love he is subsequently showered with by the one person he shouldn't be ignoring.

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><p>He hasn't felt this aroused in days.<p>

This is Arthur's first thought as he kisses the American deeply, a soft cherry hue tinting the youth's nape as he claims the tender skin with his tongue, teeth and lips. He moans breathily when familiar hands tug his shirt off, breaking them apart for a moment before he is yearning for the American once more. His pants have long been kicked off, as have Alfred's, and he's impatiently carding through his bedside drawer for the lubricant he enjoys because it's rather easy to warm and reliably helps him get the job done-

He groans, deep and uninhibited, when those hands once busy tracing his abdomen are tugging at his proud arousal. He huddles over the American, one hand resting beside lovably straw-yellow hair to keep his trembling form up.

"A-Alfred, love," he gasps, his hips naturally rocking into those delicious fingers that are coaxing him closer and closer to something Arthur doesn't want to experience yet. "P-please, stop, I can't."

The younger blond slows down, gaze on the flustered Briton's as wariness traverses his eyes.

"I meant I needed _this_ first, love." Arthur chuckles a little, breath still lost but he is both happy and startled when the American smiles up at him.

He's immediately forgotten about his sexual desires when he finally notices the tears welling up in sapphire eyes. Alfred, however, is confused when Arthur suddenly clutches him close, his body shaking from tremors and salty tears upon his cheeks.

Alfred soon realizes he's the one trembling in his boyfriend's arms, that those are his tears streaming down his cheeks and those are _his_ sobs piercing the bitter nighttime air.

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><p>"Why hadn't you ever told me this, Alfred?"<p>

The younger blond unwillingly flinches at the question, his hands trembling in his lap as he stares at the ground.

"Alfred, this is serious." his heart throbs when Arthur sighs irritably at the end, and before he knows it, begins counting how many tiles make up his boyfriend's kitchen.

"_Alfred."_

He finally looks back up when he realizes he's zoned out, but finds it just as hard to keep eye contact when that unmistakable stinging feeling pricks at his eyes again.

"I didn't think it mattered."

Arthur seems thoroughly appalled and taken-aback once he says it, and Alfred is tempted to ask why but can't because he's suddenly saying _everything_.

"My mom doesn't care, my dad doesn't listen and Mattie..." there is a sharp gulp, and Arthur doesn't need to be reminded why that is. "No-one cares." he assures, his tone vindictive but patronizingly so- as if he's placating his fears himself.

"Don't your parents tell you this, too?"

Alfred is absolutely _mortified_ when he finally glances back up and sees tears dripping down the Briton's cheeks; droplets leaving delicate emerald and racing down flushed cheeks. He wants to apologize for making his boyfriend cry, for having said everything he knows is best kept clandestine, but is startled furthermore when Arthur clutches him close to his chest.

"Alfred," he starts, his accent worsened with the thick sadness in his voice, "don't listen to them. Simply don't. You were not brought into this world just so you could outlet the leftover emotions your parents have over Matthew. You are Alfred F. Jones, odiously lovable oaf who holds every right to feel attracted to whomsoever you bloody please."

The American almost breaks away from the embrace to ask if that means if they are broken up; but finds no need to inquire it as the Briton presses a firm kiss to his trembling lips.

"And I'll always love you for it, you insufferable buffoon."

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><p>"<em>Alfred, god dammit, we have guests over! Stop<em>

_trying to get at every male, you disgusting animal."_

"_Stop dressing so provocatively, it'll_

_attract bad attention, Alfred."_

"_Boyfriend? Hah, as if it weren't enough knowing you're gay."_

Alfred finds it easier to breathe as he calmly eats his food. His mother tries scolding him for shirking her cooking for the small lunch Arthur has prepared him for the past few days. His father has thrown more plates at his face and chased him out more often than he has before, but he finds it more comforting to go through with his mechanic rituals of sitting at the table before taking all his necessities and hurrying on over to sleep over at the Briton's place.

Although the words and statements his parents use against him have lost none of their hate and poison, the American finds it easier to ignore the words with thoughts of his friends, his boyfriend and the cool fair his school will be hosting soon. He mentions how he and his boyfriend will be the main leaders of the Gay-Straight Alliance Club in it, but they hear only what they want and, subsequently, ignore him.

Alfred simply smiles at his reflection on the pristine plate, picks it up, sets it at the sink and prepares his things to go.

Things may not be going along picture-perfectly, but it's certainly a start.

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><p><strong>[ no-one ever said it would be so h a r d. ]<strong>


End file.
